Reconciliation
by LaBohme
Summary: Sometimes all it takes is a good bubble bath to wash the sins away...
1. Chapter 1

He was sat on his bed, staring at his fingernails. Derek had cut them the day after he'd brought him home. The boy's tormentor was quiet for now; the Nogitsune.

Gone, said the Sheriff and Derek and Scott and Lydia.

Sleeping, said Stiles.

Waiting. Torturing him as per usual. Making him sit anxiously in his room, staring at the eight red crescents that just wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he scrubbed, how long he picked at them. It was his own blood, at least, to match the eight red crescents scabbing over in his palms. But that didn't ease the paranoia. Stiles would see a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

A fly, said Derek. Harmless.

A fly, said Stiles. He shuddered.

Lithe fingers trembled. They hadn't stopped trembling in weeks. Stiles was used to it now, though. Just like he was used to how thin he'd gotten; the way his hipbones and ribs and collarbone jutted violently out. Just like he was used to the dreams. The nightmares. The terrible visions that fueled his incredible lack of sleep.

But he was fine, right? Just fine.

It was only seconds later that the damaged boy heard a deafening squeal erupt from the other side of the room. He jerked, springing under the covers in surprise before realizing it was the door. The door was… open. A bandage-wrapped figure, warped and twisted, stood quietly, backlit by the hallway light. Stiles, immediately petrified and trembling, blinked. The hell-bringer was now a smooth silhouette throwing a long, graceful shadow across the wooden floor.

Stiles squinted at the sudden abundance of light, hands and covers reaching up protectively, covering all but those bestial eyes. He wasn't accustomed to so much light yet. The fox had also managed to turn the dour teenager into a creature of the dark.

"Uh… hi." A rough voice started. It was higher than Derek and the Sheriff and Scott's low tones that Stiles was so used to. It was a girl. And a painfully familiar one, at that.

The boy shrunk back even further, wedging himself tightly against wall, using the thick mess of sheets as a shield.

The girl paused, her face still shadowed by the hallway light. "So… can I come in?"

The boy swallowed audibly, not moving a muscle, his eyes still wide and staring at the form from his past. Memories of the girl were not too distant, but far enough to feel bitterly nostalgic.

Malia sighed and shut the door behind her. The only remaining light source was the rosy sunset making its way through the window. It cast a strange glow on the boy cowering in front of her. His eyes reflected the gold and pink lighting the room, making them shine like fire. Malia had always liked Stiles' eyes. They were so expressive. This, in this case, was not necessarily a good thing because they held so much pain and fright she felt the overwhelming need to turn away.

Silent minutes passed.

Stiles was barely recognizable, she thought, once he lowered his blankets enough to see more than those tortured eyes. He was of a sickly pallor with dull hair hanging limply over his forehead and wet eyes and cracked lips and hollow, grey cheeks. He looked like an old homeless man, and the sight forced her to swallow a fat lump in her throat. Seventeen year olds should not look like old homeless men.

"Hi, Stiles," Malia started, fighting to keep her tone casual. It didn't work. Her voice was thick with emotion.

Stiles sighed. "Why are you here?" he hummed lowly, his voice cracking and weak like the rest of him.

"I'm here to... you know. Talk. Derek said you'd like some company." Malia said tentatively, taking cautious steps towards the bed.

He felt to her like a wild animal, and all she could think about was making sure she didn't scare him off. And those eyes… Goddamn, those eyes…

The boy shifted back a little; dropped his hands that were clutching the covers so tightly in little balled-up fists like a newborn. He watched her smooth movements with a hard, calculating stare. Stiles didn't know what to say. What to do. What was he supposed to talk about? Surely not his months-long possession? Or that one night at Eichen House? God, that felt like eternity ago. But something inside him – something dusty and underused – thudded and fluttered haphazardly like a dying butterfly. He was happy to see her, underneath it all. She was a comfort, a tie to reality, that he hadn't had the pleasure of seeing or touching in a long, long time.

She was an intoxicating mix of innocent and mature and the combination attracted him in inexplicable ways. Maybe it was because she reminded him of everything he wasn't – or what he thought he wasn't. Stiles didn't feel innocent. He had too much blood on his hands, too much pain and suffering that was obviously his fault. And he definitely didn't feel mature. On the inside, he was a small child, lost and panicked, without parent or guide. He was absolutely helpless. Stiles felt like the five year-old who wandered away from Mommy at the grocery store, frozen in place in the middle of the soup aisle, everything so big and overwhelming and people rushing by so, so fast. It was all too much. He didn't know where to turn, where to go, what to do. He was destitute. And he was alone. Except, now, for her. Malia. The coyote to keep the fox at bay.

"I'd like some company," Stiles mumbled, avoiding her deep eyes. He was suddenly embarrassed by his appearance. He was dirty and unwashed and skinny and out of the blue, he wanted to be healthy and fit again. For her. For Malia. But he wasn't.

He swallowed thickly and stared again at his blood-stained fingernails. Abruptly, he wanted them off. He wanted his gruesome fingernails gone and his limp, dirty hair gone and he wanted the earth in the creases of his palms gone and the sharp outline of his bones gone. The boy wanted himself gone. He hated himself and what he'd done and what he'd surely do if the beast got to him again. He hated the way his friends sacrificed so much to save him and he hated how Allison had died…

Stiles suddenly stood up, flipping his blankets off violently. Malia stepped back, surprised. He stared intensely at her and she found her eyes glued to his until he turned and stormed out the door, wobbly and unsure on his underutilized feet.

Malia strode forward, catching him by the shirt and he whipped around. Tears were heavy in his eyes.

"What?" he shouted, hands twitching and tensing reflexively at his sides.

"Stiles, stop. You're going to hurt yourself." She soothed.

"No," he chided, head tilting to one side. "I'm going to hurt someone else. That's what happens with me around. That's just what I _do_." he cried, a wild insanity filling those whiskey-coloured eyes.

"Calm down, Stiles. It's okay. _You're_ okay and _I'm_ okay… we're all fine, see? Now just… come back to-"

The deranged boy shook his head, ripping his arm out of the girl's grasp and he forced his way toward the stairs.

"Stiles, stop!" Malia screamed, lurching again for his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

"Malia," he grunted, twisting around to shove her away. "Leave me al-"

Stiles had stepped too far. His foot missed the top step and two bodies went tumbling down the stairs, grunting and squealing and groaning until they hit the last step in a crumpled heap, legs and arms and bodies tangled, one indiscernible from the other.

Malia, blinking heavily and clutching her head, glanced up to see a panic-stricken Derek rushing towards the pair, but shook her head quickly, laying a protective hand on Stiles' shoulder. He was alright, she was telling the werewolf. She would take care of him, she assured. Derek eyed them cautiously but moved slowly back to the living room, surely listening to every word and moan and grunt that was to be uttered.

The girl rubbed the boy's back soothingly until he started shaking. Sobbing, she came to realize. Crying bitterly into her stomach, hands and arms wrapped defensively around his head, dirt-stained fingers twisted into and tugging at his own hair.

"Hey," Malia cooed. "Stiles, you're fine. I'm fine. Everything's okay," she hummed lowly.

"It's not." He choked through a heavy breath.

"It _is_." She insisted.

The broken boy huffed a breath, too tired to argue. "I hate myself, Malia." He groaned. "I hate what I've done and what I'll do and I hate how ruined I am." Suddenly, his eyes darted up to meet hers and she clenched her teeth _hard_. "I'm barely even human anymore…"

He was so far gone; she had no words for him. She didn't know what to say or what do to. Was there any way to comfort a boy who's lost his most precious piece? A boy who's lost his sanity?

"Stiles, you're human," she assured him forcefully, unfortunate panic filling her tone. "The fact that… you're _feeling_ how wrong the things the Nogitsune made you do are, the fact that you regret and feel guilt… all that means you're human. It means you're good and you have a conscience and it most of all means you're not really responsible for all the damage that... _thing _has done."

The boy stared at her, full-on. She sighed. He didn't believe her. But he didn't argue, either.

Malia averted her eyes. "Come on, Stiles, let's get you cleaned up." She mumbled to the floor.

Slowly, and not without struggle, the two made it up the stairs and Malia steered a weak and wavering Stiles towards the bathroom.

She shut the door and cranked the bath tap until steaming water was gushing from the faucet. Stiles stared at her and she stared at him and he'd never felt so naked before in his life, despite his abundance of warm, cozy layers. Malia was biting her lip, the pink swell darkening from the pressure. Judging brown eyes followed his skeletal figure over sharp collarbones and swollen-looking elbows and wrists and the way his clothes hung so loosely over his frame. He felt ashamed and embarrassed by how bad it'd gotten. Unfortunately, though, the pull of food had lost its power over him when all he saw, day and night, were garish nightmares.

Malia cleared her throat and stuck a finger in the water to test it before rummaging through the cupboard. From who-knows-where, she found some bubble bath and dumped the green goop in.

"Uh…" she hesitated, turning to Stiles. "You can… you know. Get in. I won't look; Scout's Honour." She held up three shaking fingers, the other hand to her chest. "I'm going to… go get you food." Malia latched onto the idea like a lifebuoy. "Yes. You get in, I'll bring you food."

She hurried away. Stiles watched her leave, not a word leaving his lips.

He stared accusingly at the bubble bath, chewing his lip until he tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood. With a heavy sigh and one last forlorn look toward the door, Stiles stripped quickly and hopped into the foggy water. It was too hot, was his first reaction. The water made his skin shine red and every hair follicle stand at attention, but he did nothing about it. He sat, foaming bubbles building a wall of touchable clouds around him, until the heat no longer burned and he could sink down, almost completely covered with bubbles and liquid steam.

Too soon, Malia returned with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and a massive bowl of Lucky Charms and some Poptarts and a sippy cup of orange juice.

He cracked a smile for both the large feast and her cautious face. She was trying _so_ hard and the sentiment made the boy's heart both ache and melt.

"Thanks, Malia," Stiles croaked, tone hushed, and she suddenly beamed at him, crouching beside the tub and laying the smorgasbord across the sink.

"Derek helped." she confessed.

Stiles had guessed this. Derek knew Lucky Charms were his favourite.

He stared at the food. He wasn't really very hungry. But with a last glance at Malia's painfully hopeful expression, Stiles, for the first time in a very long time, began to stuff his face.

When he was on his second piece of toast after finishing the soggy cereal, the observer moved. Paranoia easily overtook Stiles. Without meaning to, he jerked away from her soft, tan hand, the half-eaten toast landing in a thick pile of bubbles. Malia's hand pulled away almost as fast as Stiles had.

"Sorry," she amended quickly.

The boy gulped, and shook his head, staring gravely at the sinking toast. "_I'm_ sorry." he corrected.

Seconds passed until Malia held her hand out again, this time tentatively and ever so slowly. Again, in her eyes, he was a beast; not yet tamed. Stiles, eyes lowered, head hung in shame, glanced up at the hand from the tops of his eyes and finished the gesture apologetically, hand pressing against hair with a soft brushing sound. He sighed, leaning into the anchoring palm, eyes closing tiredly. He was ruined, he knew. Deranged. He swallowed a thick lump building in his throat. She pulled her fingers soothingly through the untended bristles until Stiles' shoulders dropped and he let his head fall back without realizing it, eyes shut in euphoria.

It had been so long since someone had run their fingers through his hair, since someone had touched him like this. He thought of that night at Eichen House. The one moment everything seemed like it was going to be okay. Malia's slender fingers had been entwined in his hair then, too.

Slowly, as to not startle the boy-turned-beast, the girl cupped water and bubbles in a hand and lifted it gently to the boy's scalp. The water dribbled off his hair and down his back, making him shiver and release the ghost of a grin in long-lost delight. Malia used two hands now, massaging the water and bubbles into his hair as he tipped his head back and reveled in the tickling water and tickling fingers. Unhurriedly, the consoling hands made their way lower, softly but firmly scrubbing and massaging the tender skin on Stiles' neck and collarbones and shoulders, both sin and grime being therapeutically washed off. Stiles was barely aware. He was absolutely blissed out, head cocked to one side, eyes closed, approving hums making their way through softened, parted lips.

Malia, strangely enough, found almost as much pleasure in massaging Stiles' tired and worn muscles as he found in receiving it. It had been ages, it seemed, since she'd had someone to care for, someone to tend to other than herself, and her selfless nature had protested. Now, suddenly, she had Stiles again. She felt a swell in her chest and a skip in her heart. Malia had thought she'd never see him again after that night. She laved his warm back with the palm of her hand, pressing fingers into muscle and bone, letting those curious digits explore as they wished. Cupping more water and bubbles, she brought the froth to his neck. It cascaded down his body in smooth rivulets and, pulling her hands along the slippery paths, she shut her eyes and let her senses run wild. She could feel the smooth, hot skin sliding under sensitive fingertips and long, hot breaths mingling in the little space between them. She could smell the flowery bubbles and the salty sheen of sweat developing on their upper lips and the arousal emanating off both of them. She could hear the water pleasantly splashing and Stiles' soft hums of approval and gratitude. And she could almost taste his sighing lips against hers.

It was when Malia's hands had no where else to go, when they reached the spot where his hollowed stomach and protruding ribs disappeared into the effervescent froth, that Stiles came back to himself. His eyes snapped open and, stunned as he was, his nose was an inch from Malia's. Her eyes were half-closed, the pleasure of her hot, greedy hands on hot, supple skin intoxicating. Eyes met eyes and Malia cracked a half-grin.

"Hi, Stiles." she murmured.

He swiped his tongue nervously over his lips, her eyes tracing its every move. But the way she was looking at him was... not pitying. Not all condolences and sympathy. She was looking at him the same way she had at Eichen House that fateful night. And his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest.

Against all odds, she had managed to make him feel like a man again.

"Thanks, Malia." he mumbled, unexplained, lost in her eyes, unknowingly leaning closer and closer every second.

There was that sexy little half-grin again. "Anytime." she whispered against his lips.

Her hot, soapy hands were suddenly on his bony shoulders, splayed across his skeletal back.

Her lips were suddenly on his.

It didn't matter that his mind was ruined or that Malia hated life almost as much as Stiles did. It didn't matter that they were both messes and that Stiles was all wet and soapy and splashing water all over Malia's clothes. They were only a nuisance, anyway. It didn't matter that Derek was cringing downstairs at every needy groan and hiss as eager lips found a sweet spot.

All that mattered was that Stiles started to hate himself a little less and they both started to find a new reason to live.


	2. Chapter 2

Alrighty so just fyi this chapters takes place a few months after the first. This is Chapter 2 Part 1, everybody. I hope to have Part 2 here within the next week or so. Okey dokey? Good. Enjoy.

* * *

"Mommy! Mommy!" he cried, running towards the woman.

She was kneeling, hands tending the weeds and flowers, soft as satin. Gentle as a bird. Smooth as silk.

The boy stopped, cocked his head. "Mommy?"

The woman froze. She turned slowly, eyes straining to look over her shoulder. Lithe hands held a weed half-way out of the dirt.

"Stiles," She finally said in a loose, breathy way.

The boy took a step back.

The woman turned around to face him, smiling fondly. "Yes. Stiles."

He sighed and ran towards her. She remembered him. This was a rare 'good' day.

"Mom. I missed you." he assured her.

His mother grinned, brushing his hair lovingly away from his forehead. "Yes. I've been away, haven't I?" Another dreamy look overtook her unlined face.

He nodded and grimaced. She hadn't been away. Not physically. Mentally, though, she was waning. Her sanity was leaving her. And so she was leaving him.

"Have you met my friend?" she asked, offering him a hand.

The boy took it, shaking his head. They walked together through the open garden towards thick trees at the back. A pale figure flashed against the leaves, there and gone in an instant. He faltered, but with an encouraging look from his mother, trudged on through the tall grass. Moments later they stopped, the woman peering intently at the treeline.

"You'll like my friend. He knows such nice songs. He has such nice words."

The boy gulped, free hand twitching with nerves. He shouldn't have gone with her. He should have asked her a few questions first - seen if she was truly awake in her own head. He knew from experience how often she wasn't and, though he hated to hear it, his father warned him enough against going places with her when she got like this.

"There!" She cried excitedly, pointing at nothing. Another white figure flashed. "Oh, hear that? Aren't his songs just beautiful?"

"Mom, I think... I think we should go back." He tried to sound mature. He tried to sound in control.

But the woman started to sing along to the song he didn't hear, staring adoringly at a man he didn't see.

_Are you so tired of the things your fear?_

_And so tired of the things you 'hear'?_

_You've never seen the end so clear._

_You've never seen the end so near._

_Are you so tired of telling lies?_

_Are you so done with sightless eyes?_

_You're no more the one who tries._

_Now you're just the one who dies._

_You're so mad._

_You're so mean._

_And the pain, as always, remains unseen._

She stopped, eyes closed, lips twisted into a loose grin. With a sigh, and a pointed look to the invisible man, she started up a minute later, chanting in a deep rhythm.

_Oh, Madness is a lonely child,_  
_from whom the many run away,_  
_the odd thing is - when we are tired,_  
_it is the one with whom we play._

The boy, breathing ragged and rushed, tried to tug his hand out of his mother's. This was wrong. This was dangerous. She wasn't right in the head. He was scared. He pulled away again, a broken scream ripping out of his empty lungs. But his mother only turned to him, still smiling, still chanting. She knelt, catching his small, white jaw in tight fingers. And with a final kiss on his forehead, she broke his hand and died.

* * *

Stiles sat up, gasping for breath that refused to be found. His chest was heaving as visions of his mother's dead eyes clung to him. The dream faded as he found his breath. But this was not a new dream. He knew how it ended, every single time.

Running his mother's lithe hands through sweaty hair, he flexed his fingers. Not broken. Not clutching the hand of a dead woman.

A low, pained note escaped his sore throat. Those hands fell to his lap, his head hung so low, so heavy, full to bursting with painful memories of his mother and the Nogitsune and pain and death and blood. His breathing slowed. He shut his eyes.

A soft hand pressed against his back, tracing his spine which, though much less prominent, was still too visible to be healthy. Gentle fingers followed each vertebra to the dimples framing his tailbone. They pulled back up to catch his jaw.

Stiles flinched, for a moment feeling his mother's vice-like fingers rather than Malia's delicate ones. Malia didn't pull away. Stiles was thankful.

"Bad dream?" She hummed, her voice low and rough with sleep.

He hunkered down to bury his head in the crook of her neck. Arms wrapped tightly around his body, rubbing trembling skin until he let a laboured breath out into her hair and let his body mould to hers.

Stiles opened his eyes, staring up at her neck and her cheek and across her collarbone and chest. Her skin was white and grey and blue in the dark and so many other impossible colours in between. Her skin was beautiful and firm and soft so he pressed wet lips to her neck. Malia shivered under him. He wrapped her up in his arms until they were pressed together so snugly they were indiscernible from one another. They blended together in soft, sleepy shades until they were one being, both breath and heartbeats synchronized.

"You didn't sleep." He whispered to her hair.

"We still have time."

She grinned as he strained upwards for a look at the clock. It was three in the morning.

"I can't sleep." He confessed. His voice cracked, low and rough.

Malia nodded. Stiles swallowed, an inexplicable feeling pushing from his chest. This was why he loved Malia more than he could have ever imagined. She didn't ask about the dream. He didn't want to talk about the dream. She didn't force him or push him. She was patient without fault and she loved him for him. They loved each other wholly in ways rarely seen throughout the world.

"So let's not." She sat up, untangling herself from him.

They both grinned, shivering. They were naked and cold.

Picking some clothes up off the ground and pulling them unceremoniously on, Malia stood up and stared at Stiles.

He was spread out in such beautiful ways. He looked infinitely better than he had. His bones and stomach were lined with thick muscle. He was rosy from her penetrating gaze and his skin was golden. His hair was thick and dark and his face glowed with health. Though mentally he was still far from okay, physically he was almost perfect. A few more pounds and he'd be back to how he was pre-possession. Malia bit her lip, exhaling strongly through her nose. Stiles was stretched out across the messy bed, sheets covering his hips to his thighs, arms behind his head. His gaze was mischievous and somewhat shy as he knowingly pulled his muscles taught and stretched enticingly in front of her. His head tipped back, exposing the thin white skin of his neck, the sheet slipping ever so slightly, just barely covering what she was most interested in at the moment.

"Stiles," She warned, voice low and husky.

He grinned at her. "Where are you going?" His eyes told her he knew he had her hooked. She wasn't going anywhere. Not with him lying so temptingly across her bed.

"I was going to go to the beach." Her eyes were still travelling the hills and valleys of his body, their gaze dark with lust and desire. Stiles could only imagine what thoughts were going through her head.

He licked his lips excitedly, taking in her bedhead and his shirt that didn't remotely fit her fine frame and her long legs that he craved so deeply. After everything he'd been through he made a promise not to deny himself of the good things in this world. Malia was one of those good things. He wanted Malia. He _needed_ Malia.

"Stay here with me." Each of his carefully-pronounced words was filled with sex.

Stiles watched Malia squirm, her eyes flickering between his and his body. She didn't want to give in. She was too proud. But the provocation was so great. With a deep breath, a fire lit itself in her eyes. This was a game now.

"No." She forced herself to catch his eyes. He cocked an eyebrow, a smirk playing across softened lips.

"We can cuddle and..." His gaze flickered off to the side. He blushed.

Though Stiles could try to act like a sex fiend, he was still a virgin, shy on the delicate topic. This made Malia grin, and she stepped closer to him, hands falling away from the buttons she was trying to do up. Stiles' shirt hung open over her slender, golden shoulders. He gulped as she approached, holding his eyes so possessively it made him squirm with nerves and excitement.

"You know, Stiles," She reached the bed; crawled towards him. "Even though I can't shift anymore, I still have pretty good senses."

He shrugged, tongue licking nervously at dewy lips. "Y-Yeah, I know. Good... f-fashion sense and all that." He swallowed loudly, eyes darting from her exposed breasts to her infinite eyes to the full, wet lips that were smirking at him.

Malia swung low, hovering over his naked body. She could feel the heat emanating off his skin. "You know what I can smell, Stiles?" She cocked her head. He shook his quickly, his breathing short and fast. Malia leaned in, so close she could almost taste the salty sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Her lips brushed his jawbone and teeth found an earlobe. "Arousal."

A deep, animalistic groan tore itself from his throat, his eyes hooded and lusty and dark. Any nerves he had concerning intimacy were gone. Needy hands reached for her but she chose that moment to rock back on naked hips. Malia grinned at him, obviously victorious. Stiles groaned again as the sudden lack of the heat of her body left him feeling bare and cold.

"Malia," He huffed softly through a rough exhale. It was a plea, soaked with desperation.

"I want to go to the beach." She insisted, slowly buttoning up his shirt, covering a flat stomach and stiff, peaked breasts.

Stiles, sighing, let his head loll to the side, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm tired." He protested, pouting shiny lips.

Malia swatted at his bare feet. "You just said you couldn't sleep, asshole." Stiles just scrunched his nose at her, trying futilely to catch her thin waist between his calves. She grabbed them easily, pulling him towards the edge of the bed.

"Eager, aren't we?" The boy smirked as the sheet - the only thing covering him - slipped even further off, leaving one hipbone and a dangerous amount of skin exposed.

"Prude, aren't we?" She sneered as he started to pull the sheet back up, his naturally modest nature taking over.

Stiles froze. And keeping his eyes on Malia's, he ever so slowly got up, swinging his legs over the bed and standing. The sheet fell uselessly away. Malia's eyes struggled to keep hold of Stiles'. She swallowed. She showed weakness. Fingers at her sides trembled, so incredibly eager for the feel of his smooth, firm flesh against hers. She tilted her chin up, trying so hard to keep her aura of pride and authority. But she'd lost. Her eyes broke off from Stiles', flickering everywhere, trying to take his whole beautiful body in at once. Her tongue wouldn't stay still. It swept across her lips until they were sore and a deep pink blush spread across her cheeks. She couldn't stop staring.

"It was your idea to get naked." Stiles offered after a solid minute of laboured silence.

Malia's lips smacked, struggling to find words through the thick air. "I just... wanted to cuddle." She amended, eyes flickering up once more to meet his.

He smirked, cocking an eyebrow. His expression was lusty and his lips were loose and his eyes hooded and deep, deep brown. He stepped towards her. Just one step. But it was enough. She gravitated towards him, almost floating across the old carpet, decorated with patterns painted by the moon. Malia had no idea how the kid could switch so seamlessly from shy virgin to sex fiend in seconds.

"Beach?" Stiles asked. "Or bed?"

But Malia didn't hear him. Not really. She was preoccupied with the way the moonlight caught his lips; sparkling, almost, with saliva, and the way the same moonlight ignored his eyes, leaving them dark, deep sockets. It was a look both enticing and frightening, to Malia. For the first time in a long time, Stiles looked powerful. He looked strong. And he looked hot as hell.

"Bed." Malia commanded, her chest reaching his in a single stride.

Hands found bare skin, revelled as they traced his collarbones before shoving him back towards the mattress. She caught the slightest hint of a smile curving his lip before he fell back, naked and splayed deliciously beneath her. Malia crawled atop him, their skin pressing together from foreheads to toes. Arms, stronger and safer than ever, curled around her waist, pressing her hipbones almost painfully into his. But they didn't feel it. They were intoxicated with their heat and their breaths and the friction. Goddamn, the friction. A primal groan ripped itself from Stiles' throat, his fingers gripping desperately at her back, raking along her spine before they landed comfortable on her bum, pressing her harder against him in the most intimate of ways. Her lips found a sweet spot on the delicate skin of his neck and his eyes rolled back into his head, mouth loose and open, panting and sighing and making the most undignified sounds. But Malia either didn't care or didn't notice. Every sound he made sent delicious vibrations straight to her crotch. Every moan and hum and groan was like honey, thick and sweet and soft. They were both lost in ecstasy.

Until Malia sat up. The sound Stiles made was almost a whimper; needy and protesting and wrecked. The girl grinned, pressing her palms into his chest. She leaned over him once more and his breath hitched. He palmed desperately at a breast. "I changed my mind." she rumbled. "I want to go to the beach."

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Yaass okay thank you for reading and again, PMs and reviews are always lovely :) Make my day, they do!


	3. Chapter 3

"I liked trees."

The girl turned to face the boy in the passenger seat. He was staring out the window at the passing woods. His skin was milky in the moonlight. His eyes were hollowed and dark.

"And now?" She prodded softly. Reluctantly, her gaze returned to the yellow stripe down the middle of the road.

"I don't."

"Why?"

He breathed deeply - shakily. His hands fidgeted in his lap. He looked away from the forest lining the road and into his empty palms. "When I see trees I see him."

Malia nodded, readjusting her grip on the wheel. She didn't ask him to explain further. She knew he was still hurting, even now, months later. It would be a long time before he forgot, if ever. Stiles knew this. He knew he was broken. He twiddled his fingers more, mesmerizing himself with his nimble joints and his palms which didn't seem as vast and strong as they once did. No more did he look at his hands and see tools for touching and soothing and helping and healing. He looked at his hands and saw that they were covered in blood and pain and were turned into weapons.

"Are you sad?" Malia asked.

The boy's mouth quirked. He stuffed his bloodied hands between his thighs and his gaze trained sightlessly over the dash. "No." He was quiet for a few minutes. She waited. "I'm empty…" Seconds later he seemed to regret his statement. "I'm full."

Malia chuckled quietly, head cocking to the side. "Okay, Stiles. Whatever you say."

"No, I-" He stopped, grinning gently at himself. With a deep breath, he reiterated. "I have this huge weight filling my chest. It presses on me and makes it hard to breathe… It makes everything feel pointless... Empty."

"Okay."

He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. It did make everything seem pointless. The weight made it hard to smile and laugh and love. Though he didn't know quite what the weight actually was, he could guess. Maybe it was depression. Inevitable death. Guilt. There were plenty of possibilities. None were for certain.

The car was quiet as they approached a secluded stretch of beach.

"I used to be good at art." Malia said as the car rounded the last corner. It pulled to a halt in a tiny parking lot above the sand.

Both of them stared at the crashing water, silent. Still.

"I was smart." Stiles supported.

"I was a fast runner."

"I was funny."

Inside the car was peaceful. Neither said a word.

Malia turned the car off and sat, facing the waves, her seatbelt done up and her key in her hand. She felt too heavy to move. Stiles sniffed, releasing the air in a shaky breath, and cleared his throat.

"I guess in the end we were too weak to uphold our potential." The boy offered, covertly rubbing tears from his cheeks. "Everything we could have been… now look at us." He laughed quietly; a dark, mocking sound, unnatural when coming from his soft, pink lips.

"Hey," Malia hushed, taking his hand and undoing her seatbelt. "At least we're together." She tried.

"I'm broken," the boy reminded her. New tears stung his eyes. He looked away from her, embarrassed.

The girl nodded, averting her gaze towards the ocean. She rubbed circles into the back of his trembling hand. "I'm here."

* * *

She had somehow managed to convince him to strip naked for the second time that night.

Malia had taken his hand and was leading him into the water. The sand curled around his toes. The wind was needy and clung to them as they waded through it, its tendrils pulling at them, and Stiles reveled in the feeling of being wanted by something even as common and worthless as the air. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, and allowed the girl to guide him through the shivery water up to his ankles, then his knees, then his hips, then his ribs. They stopped when it licked at her collarbone. He gazed towards the sand and the road and civilization and he felt very distanced from it all. It was a comforting feeling. He was on the outside of everything. He was out.

"I'm glad you're here." He told Malia.

She grinned, her eyes training on the ripples they created, not meeting his eyes. "I... I don't know what to say to that." She confessed, a smile poking dimples into her cheeks. It made Stiles grin.

Malia felt elated. She bent her head and covered her face with glistening fingers. She couldn't believe where they were; where Stiles was on his road to recovery. She had missed him. She had thought she'd lost him. But maybe... maybe he would come back. Maybe he was coming back. Unable to find words in the salty night wind, Malia met Stiles' searching eyes and put a palm to his cheek. She pulled him closer until their naked, wet bodies were flush against one another.

"What are we doing here, Stiles?" she murmured.

He took his time to answer. "We're avoiding sleep."

"No, not _here,_ at the beach. I meant _here_. You and me... together." Her head gestured downwards, to where their bodies were pressed so tightly together they were almost indiscernible from one another.

Stiles shrugged, a rare smile gracing his face. "I think it was sort of inevitable. You and me... You saved me, Malia. You pulled me out of the dark." He pressed his words into her shoulder and her neck and her ear, cementing them to her skin with his lips.

"Okay. I pulled you out of the dark. Now what?" Her voice was rough, struggling to stay even as the boy's teeth and tongue played along her collarbone.

"Now I make up for my sins." Stiles rumbled. "I want to create enough pleasure to match the pain."

Malia suddenly found the air stiflingly hot. The water soothed her burning skin but everything exposed was scorching. Her hands traveled up the boy's jaw and neck and carded through the short hair at the base of his neck. "Pleasure?" she murmured, her breath coming in short, fast huffs.

He nodded against her cheek. "Pleasure. Starting with you."

The girl's hands raked down his spine and she pulled herself up on him, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing her lips to his in a frenzy. One primal thought had taken over her mind.

_Closer. Closer. Closer._ She could never be close enough. She loved him. He loved her.

When a moving, dark shape caught the corner of her eye, she froze. Stiles froze. He saw it too. But as they stared they relaxed. It was not a threat. It was a graffiti artist, stealing through the night towards the cement wall cupping the beach. A heavy bag was flung onto the sand. It was opened, and the man in black started creating.

Stiles sunk lower in the water, until the waves lapped at his chin and lips, and Malia hugged closer to him. He felt invisible and it was wonderful.

"We have to be quiet." He whispered on Malia's cheek.

She grinned and nodded.

"You can't make a sound," he continued, voice rough, pressing into her hair.

His hands were pressing along her back and her bum and her thighs. They were caressing and touching and feeling her skin in ways Stiles hadn't for too long a time. His fingers found a stiff nipple, only an inch below the surface of the surging water, and rolled it between a finger and a thumb. His lips found a sweet spot at the base of her neck and she groaned. The fingers left her nipple in a second.

"_Shhh._.." he breathed. "Quiet, Malia."

"_Stiles_," she whined, breath laboured. He tweaked the other nipple. She bit her lip, stifling a squeak. "You know you're making this kind of hard."

He didn't respond. He grinned a funny little grin and licked a hot stripe across the base of her neck. Malia swore she felt her skin burn at the touch. She was clay in his hands, moving and shifting as he wished, completely at mercy to the damaged boy supporting her. A particularly strong wave coasted across her lips and she pulled his head up to kiss him through the taste of the sea. His fingers once again found a nipple and she moaned into his lips as they shared hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses.

Suddenly, the world was blue and red. Their heads shot up towards the beach as a siren pierced the air. A cop car approached the secluded stretch of sand, making the graffiti artist drop everything and run. He left his bag. The officer moved to get out of his car before deciding he was tired. He turned the car around and left.

Once again, they were truly alone.

Actually, Malia was truly alone.

As the cop car left, she realized how tight Stiles' grip had become. She started to protest, squirming and palming at his arms and chest before her eyes trained to meet his. They were wide. Empty. Unseeing. His lips were parted and an unmistakable expression of fear had twisted his features.

The sudden flash had sent his delicate mind into a state of shock.

"Stiles?" she murmured. He didn't respond. "Stiles?!" Her voice rose, an unfortunate panic filling her tone.

She repeated his name over and over, frantic, slapping at his chest and shoulders and cheeks.

"Stiles!"

* * *

"_Stiles,_" A voice cooed.

The boy blinked. He tried to scream, but his throat was tight and sore and closed. He choked, trying to cough. He struggled desperately to get away from the thing whispering his name an inch from his face. It had a putrid black tongue in an oily, toothless maw and its face was wrapped in ragged white. It taunted him with his name and the boy flinched at every syllable. When his feet finally hit the right angle on the dirt floor he used the new-found leverage to push himself away from the beast. He got a few inches before the pain in his throat was doubled. He stopped, gagging and dry-heaving. Through the dim light he realized that he was tied to the foul creature - the bandages cocooning it had started to cocoon him too, starting at his throat.

"NO!" He protested, voice rasping and dry. His mind went into a fierce and immediate panic. _Not again not again not again not again._ This couldn't happen - not again.

He clawed desperately at the white strips of gauze, flailing and screaming and kicking and fighting like he never had the chance to when it overtook his mind.

But it was futile.

The bandages were like snakes, smooth and slow, but steadily crawling over his neck, then his jaw, then his chin. Stiles yelled one last, piercing yell, echoing ripped and bloody from a collapsing windpipe. The champion bandages continued, slowly and tightly over his ears and nose. He pulled in one last breath and then stopped.

He stopped.

He gave up.

The boy lay there, limbs loose and beaten, eyeing the creature sitting contentedly across from him, smiling and humming as he died. He held the breath and all sound faded but the pumping of his own heart and then that faded too and then everything was no more.

* * *

The girl was now only feet from the beach. She readjusted her grip on his shoulder and arm and tugged with one last heaving effort. They both fell in the shallows of the ocean. Malia sucked in a fortifying breath and pulled herself up before bringing her weight down onto the boy's chest. She smacked his cheeks and his chest and pressed against his throat, hoping the panic of restricted air would stun his mind back into reality. He was breathing, yes, though shallowly, and Malia prayed that those few seconds she had lost her grip and he had sunk to the sand at the bottom of the ocean had not done too much damage.

Then she was crying on his belly. She slapped forsakenly at his chest, sobbing his name and pleas and promises in order for him to wake up.

Those seconds stretched to minutes and were painful and quiet, the water lapping gently and soothingly at their sides.

She lay on his stomach, quieted, rising and falling with his breath, and studied his eyelashes and jawbone and the moles on his cheek intently. She touched his arms and ribs for the sake of touching, for the comfort of his soft, salty skin and the faint warmth he gave her.

Her eyelids fluttered. She closed them, focusing her entirety on willing him awake, willing his mind not to be lost. Not now. Not again.

Minutes later, that seemed like eons, he opened his eyes. The boy blinked a few times, exhausted for some reason. He didn't say a word. He was comforted by her weight and focused on matching his breathing to hers. After a few seconds he couldn't help himself. He quietly laced his fingers with hers.

Malia opened her eyes. She blinked a few times, exhausted for obvious reasons. She didn't say a word. She pulled her taken hand up to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. She kissed his cheeks and kissed his nose and kissed his lips.

"Can I make you mine if I let myself be yours?" her voice was quite and soft. It pulled at him like the waves, drawing him in to her.

Stiles nodded.

She staggered to her feet, wiggling her wet toes in the sand, and walked over to the abandoned bag of paints. She peered inside. The owner was quite the graffiti artist. The old black canvas duffel held spray paint and some tubes of paint and medium and rough brushes. She pulled a tube of dark blue and returned to the boy.

"Promise me you'll remember that you're mine."

He nodded again, still bathing in two inches of the warmest shallow water, reveling in its tiny, salty tongues lapping at his legs and sides and splayed arms. He was spread out beautifully again, lean and pale like the crescent of a moon lording over them.

Malia squeezed some paint onto her fingers and dabbed it over the tips of them all before kneeling beside her lover.

So, so gently, she brushed wet hair away an pressed a finger to his forehead. The paint bled out from her finger, staining his pale skin. She pulled the line down over his nose bridge and lips and chin and neck, continuing until she had split him perfectly in half. He blinked at her, features soft and breathing slow. Malia squeezed more paint out and covered her palms. She pressed a pigmented hand into the right side of his chest, the paint mingling with the water droplets decorating his skin and running off tainted.

"This half can be yours," she murmured. The girl pressed her other palm into the left side, over his beating heart. "But this half is mine."

The boy only nodded again, his eyes following her every movement, finding beauty in every hair caught by the wind and every grain of sand decorating her smooth, wet legs.

Malia continued to paint, his body her canvas, until the stars were reflected in his skin and her fingers pulled lines over the hills and valleys of his ribs and thighs and her hand prints cuffed his ankles and wrists and the shape of her lips decorated his cheeks.

When she had finished she sat back, staring at her masterpiece. He looked like a soldier in war paint. And how true that was. Against all odds, the soldier had come back alive. Wounded, but alive. She liked how her hand cupped his heart and how her fingers cupped his face. She admired how he looked completely hers. Stiles was hers. And she was his.

The girl lay down beside the boy and they stared at the stars and were tickled by the tide as it faded with the night. They breathed in harmony and their fingers found each other, tangling together desperately like rose vines, clinging to each other for safety and life and love.

Dawn soon came.


End file.
